All the Little Things
by mholub00
Summary: He'd let the words of Victoria Hand worm their way into his mind. (It's the little things that tear you apart.) (One-Shot, though companion-ish to "What They Heard and What They Lost")


**A/N: Based off of that thing in that episode of Agents of SHIELD.**

He's not sure why it bothers him so much, but she said it and it does.

They never have extraction.

And they know this.

But they've never failed, not really. Always hit check in, always safe eventually. Turn up at base two days later like nothing changed, like the world did go to Hell and back.

Why is the question at the back of brain? Why does he want an answer?

He finds them easily enough, ignoring the smugness that he still knows their routine so well. His team won't miss him, not with so much more Base to explore, so much more work to be done.

The gym is right where he left it, and he's not sure why that surprises him.

He's also not sure why the bang of the guns and the whiz of the arrows relaxes him so much.

No one aboard his plane curses in Russian, and no one laughs quite that way afterward. It feels a little more like home, but he shakes that. It can't be that way, not anymore. He let them go.

"Why is it so much harder with my left hand?" Natasha's saying when he walks in, looking awkward with Clint's bow in her hands. The stance is wrong, her muscles too tight, and Clint fixes it, hands on her hips as he turns her body a little more.

"I'm better at being ambidextrous," Clint retorts and she throws him that smile.

He thinks he should say something when she turns her head to stare Clint down, her arm moving just enough that when she releases the arrow, it misses the target entirely, and the wall, and instead sticks in the ceiling; but he doesn't.

"Well shit," Clint mutters, staring at the arrow. Natasha laughs and shoves the bow into his arms.

"Serves you right for distracting me."

He punches her on the shoulder.

Yeah, it feels a bit more like home.

She's moving back to retrieve her pistols, discarded on the training mats with her T-shirt, when she sees him.

Everything changes. She stands up straight and pulls her shirt back on, fixing her red ponytail, eyes never leaving him. When she's tensed enough, out of her comfort, she gives him a sort of nod.

"Agent Coulson," Clint says, moving behind her, water bottle in hand. He'd say it was almost a protective action if he didn't know better, didn't know them.

He hates that he's Coulson now, when he used to be Phil. But they have every right, he reminds himself, to keep distant. After what happened, what he did.

They stand there, expectantly, waiting for him to do something or leave.

This is not what home feels like, with the awkwardness and silence, and he knows he made it this way when he ran off in his plane, so he clears his throat and takes a step forward.

"You know that you never have extraction going into your missions, right?" He asks, straightforward. They don't really want him here, as much as he wishes they would.

Natasha doesn't flinch, but she blinks, and that's not a reaction he's used to. The Glare is unwavering, and part of him whispers that the crack is his fault.

"Parameters since day one," Clint replies almost robotically. "Founding code of Strike Team Delta."

That team used to be his.

He pretends not to notice the hand resting on her waist, and wonders if it's there on instinct or for support.

"Does...does it ever bother you?"

Support for him, or support for her? He doesn't want to think how much he broke them both.

"We've always been on our own," Natasha challenges, and the ice of her voice cuts at his heart.

There's a moment where they're moving and he wants to scream for them to stop, to hold tight and save it, save them, save Strike Team Delta, but then they're walking past, weapons in hand, red ponytail swinging side to side, and he's missed his chance.

"It's better this way," Clint adds, turning in the doorway. "Always has been. Her and me against the world."

Then he's gone, after his partner, following her like always, and the click of his shoes on the metal fades.

No goodbye.

He doesn't even know when he'll see them next, his Boy With a Bow and his Second Chance Girl.

They aren't his, he knows. Never have been, not really. The two of them against the world.

Not home, not anymore, he's aware now that he's lost it all, and he runs off to his escape of a big black plane


End file.
